Letter of the Law
by Windswift
Summary: Like any good Catholics, the Italies endeavor to twist Lent to their advantage?


Disclaimer: _Axis Powers Hetalia_ belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz

_**Letter of the Law**_

Romano thunks his arms on the kitchen table, his elbows smacking down in a particularly satisfying whump, and his forehead follows shortly to pillow on them. "Winter is fucking stupid," he explains to the wood grain. "Is it over yet?"

Veneziano, fussing over the espresso, breathes out a vague, airy sigh that rises at the end in a question. Romano rolls his head to one side to watch-not that it's an unusual noise, coming from his little brother. But it does sound rather like his brain finally vaporizing and whistling out his ears like steam from a tea kettle.

Veneziano's eyebrows crinkle in concentration. "Well, not quite, but it's almost time for Carnevale, and then you can look forward to Easter. Oh, but it will probably be really cold at Easter, the weather's always funny like that, but there'll be nice days in between. And then after Easter it will be spring and then comes summer." Veneziano pours the milk into the cups as he rambles, his left hand fluttering about in aborted gestures while he keeps his right hand steady. "You'll be out in the fields complaining about the heat before you know it-well, maybe not _you_, specifically, you'll think it takes forever no matter what, but it's an expression."

_Jesus-fucking-Christ_, Romano thinks; that's why he asked the _table_. He mutters something that sounds passably like "Yeah, thanks."

Veneziano just smiles and carries the cups over, one in each hand without any sloshing or the spoons rattling about on the saucers, with a steadiness that Germany would eat his stupid black gloves to possess. The northern half of Italy is flawlessly conscientious when it comes to his two passions: food and art. And this morning's cappuccino happens to be both, because Veneziano is also a big fat show-off and the milk has foamed in the shape of a pale mask against the backdrop of creamy brown, complete with a swirl of feathers.

Romano plunks his spoon right into the middle of the cup, then slouches back in his chair with a thump. He lets his fingers play over the knot of his tie, because his brother always accuses him of sulking when he crosses his arms across his chest. Romano's just giving his cappuccino a chance to cool, and anyway he wants to _drink_ the damn thing, not cherish it as an heirloom.

In any case, Venice must be getting heartily sick of winter as well and eagerly preparing for the Carnevale season. Veneziano picks up his own spoon but just twitches it in the air, tiny jerks, as if he's designing more elaborate and gaudy adornment for the mask base in his mind. Any minute now he'll open the cupboard and break out the spices, pinching warm reddish cinnamon here and trailing cool accents of cocoa there.

In the spirit of Carnevale Veneziano ought to play the role of failure for at least one day of the year and let Romano unleash his inner spirit of prodigy, but no pair of masks in the world can disguise them in that mischief. So Romano picks up his cup, his tongue darting self-consciously across his upper lip after each sip, and at least Veneziano makes a damn fine cappuccino even if he is an ass.

Veneziano slurps at his own coffee. "Carnevale really is just around the corner. Have you decided what you're giving up for Lent?" he chirps.

_Chirps_, as if self-denial is an exciting prospect, as if Romano needs a clean heart and should be thrilled to suffer for it. Still, Veneziano has got a point, so he ponders a moment before he responds.

"I think I'll give up tolerating stupid people."

"_Romano_..." he draws the name out into a whine, tapping the back of his spoon against his lips and puffing his cheeks into his best _Brother, I am so disappointed in you_ pout. "You gave that up last year. Anyway, shouldn't you pick something that you'll want to work hard on all year round?"

"I could," Romano considers, "but then I'd probably have to kick you out of the damn house."

Veneziano pops his spoon in his mouth while he thinks, and although it doesn't muffle all the funny humming noises, it keeps the stupidity plugged up in his mouth. So of course he pulls it out just long enough to suggest: "Hm, maybe you could give up swearing so much."

Romano aims a swift kick under the cover of the table-which is also hiding that Veneziano must have pulled his feet up on his chair to sit cross-legged, and so Romano's own stockinged foot stubs into a rung instead. At least the chair jerks from the force and the spoon clacks against Veneziano's teeth, so Romano pretends it's a well-executed plan and the nerve endings in his toes aren't on fire. "Fuck no! I'm not doing that, goddamnit."

"And taking God's name in vain on purpose," Veneziano adds, keeping his eyes demurely lowered to his cappuccino. But he's laughing inside, Romano knows, and two can play at being a bastard. He stirs his spoon against the bottom of his cup, watching the thin swirl of coffee in its wake.

"Actually, I'm giving up Germany for Lent."

Romano, from years of practice, doesn't wince as Veneziano's cry of injured protest shrills into something more of a shriek than a squawk. Coffee sloshes over the rim and onto his saucer as Veneziano abandons his cup. "Brother, you can't do that! Can you? It's not very Christian!"

He snorts and levels his spoon accusingly at Veneziano. "Well there's no way _you'll_ give that bastard up," his spoon levels accusingly at Veneziano, "so I'm giving him up for you. No Germany in this house until Easter, _capisci_?" Romano drains the last of his cappuccino to hide his smirk, because he's a gracious victor-though he'd like to rub his triumph all over Veneziano's stupid face. Instead he carries his cup to the sink and rinses it, like a perfectly reasonable and mature adult, because the matter is settled and neatly wrapped with a bow.

Though Romano does lean back against the counter and luxuriate for a good three minutes in Veneziano's pouting frown, the spoon worrying against his lips again while he tries to summon a few crocodile tears in the hope of his big brother relenting. Ninety-five percent of the time Romano would collapse at Veneziano's tears pricking like pins in his resolve and letting all the air out, but this, he decides, is the five percent. And he might not even have to see that pitiful face all Lent, if Veneziano spends all his time at Germany's house "consoling" that potato bastard.

But while Romano has all of Lent to savor long-awaited justice in the world, he only has five minutes before he starts running late and his morning degenerates into shit. So he smooths his tie and his hair and straightens his shirt-cuffs and pushes away from the sink. Veneziano abandons his subdued sniffling like a battlefield and scrambles around on his chair as Romano passes, kneeling on the seat to call after him:

"Lent is only forty days, you know, and they don't count the Sundays. I'm inviting Germany over to have lunch with us after every Mass!"

Romano keeps walking down the hall and raises his eyes heavenward, and he mentally explains to Mary that he can get away with just giving up Germany for Lent because right now he's going to sacrifice stomping back into the kitchen to punch his fool brother in the face. And, he offers her, if he feels particularly ambitious about his soul, he might even be a saint and show his face at one of the lunches.


End file.
